


Serendipity

by Dukeofnone, MagpieWords



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Aziraphale Cooks (Good Omens), Baking, Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang, F/F, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gabriel Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Inspired by Art, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Self-Discovery, Self-Esteem Issues, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Smoking, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Tattoos, They/Them Pronouns for Beelzebub (Good Omens), hell is a punk band
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29052375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dukeofnone/pseuds/Dukeofnone, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieWords/pseuds/MagpieWords
Summary: noun. a development of events by chance in a beneficial way.College is about finding yourself, but how do you find something you haven't defined yet? A music student and a culinary student have no reason to meet, and even less reason to become friends. Somehow, something that wasn't meant to happen leads them to finally define what their lives will become.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 28
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	1. Pollution and Crème Brûlée

**Author's Note:**

> This has been an amazing whirlwind of a project! [Dukeofnone's](https://twitter.com/DukeOfNone/) idea was inspired and their art feels like a movie poster. This story made me completely rethink my own college experience and the concept of self definition - sometimes the lens of other people can help you see what you want to become.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! The remaining chapters will be posted over the next three days.

* * *

It was the stock photos that irritated her more than anything. A two-second google search would yield the same pictures with the same keywords. Happy. Determined. Confident. These students looking back at her on the orientation packet knew what they were doing. They had their futures determined and could chart the course to get there. They were the same happydeterminedconfident stock photos used in self help books and billboard ads for experimental health supplements.

They were photos that were shown to lost people. Desperate people who wanted nothing more than to be exactly like that snapshot. That if they read this book, took this drug, paid ten thousand pounds, they could be happy too.

Also the layout of the packet made it impossible to figure out if her dorm was on the west side or east side of campus and that was annoying. Maybe she should change her major to graphic design.

“Crawley!”

She stopped glaring at the glossy pages just in time to brace herself as Luci crashed into her. While she was taller, Luci was older and, for some reason, that made her knees nearly buckle at the pressure of staying upright. “You found me.” What a stupid thing to say.

“Duh,” Luci’s laughter had always been loud, but it felt stronger now, completely unapologetic instead of just boldly confident like it was the last time they saw each other. “What kind of leader would I be if I let my newest member get lost on her first day?”

“I’m not lost.” It sounded defensive even to her own ears and Luci just rolled her eyes.

“Of course, Crawley.”

“Maybe,” her mouth ran ahead of her mind and she wasn’t even sure what she wanted to ask for yet. The words tasted souring as they poured out. “Don’t call me that?” It’d been a fun nickname back home, something older than her memory, in order to differentiate her from the three other girls on their block with the same first name. But once Luci graduated, no one called her that anymore. She was just Antonia C., but even that felt wrong.

For a split second, the campus stood still around her. Having Luci’s full attention was always overwhelming. It was bliss and terror, being seen by someone who seemed to glance over everything. Particularly when her face was so blank. How could a chance at belonging slip away with just a single question?

And then Luci smiled, slow and almost sinister. “You really are ready for college, kid. Beez is gonna love you.”

It took everything not to lose her footing again from the sheer relief of seeing that smile. “Bees?”

“Yeah, you’ll meet them tonight. They’ll try to trick you into majoring in polisci instead of music - do not listen to them about that, but listen to them about everything else.” Luci’s red nails looked too long to be of any use playing guitar, but they were very usual for snatching the orientation packet. “Go that way,” she pointed another sharp red nail east. “And look for a brick building with ivy. If you hit the glass building you’ve gone too far.”

She shoved the packet back and had turned away before any well due gratitude could be offered. “I’m not going to call you Antonia though, doesn’t suit you.”

And then she was alone on the quad again. Luci had a point, as unfortunate as it was to hear the words said out loud. Her own name didn’t suit her. She looked back at the cheery faces in the orientation packet. What were their names? How did they know to choose the right ones?

* * *

“My name is Newt, he/him pronouns, do not ask for my phone number.” And her roommate held out his hand with such confidence that she didn’t think twice about taking it. His grip was weak, despite the confidence, but given how scrawny he was, it wasn’t surprising.

“Glad to be your roommate, Newt.” She dropped her bags on the bare mattress. “You lose your phone or something?”

“Or something.” His side of the room was already decorated, posters of vintage cars along the wall and a bedspread that screamed it was from one of those ‘50% Off College Supplies’ sales. “You, uh, going to tell me your name or…?”

She was tempted to bite back ‘or something’, sharp and safe like she always has been. Instead, she took a deep breath, fingers fidgeting with the zipper of her guitar bag. She was supposed to be someone different now. If this twinky loser could do it, she could too.

“Crowley.”

“That’s what it said on the packet, yeah. But is that what you want to be called?” 

She unzipped the bag and took out her instrument. Jet black, with golden bird feathers painted along the surface. It had been a very expensive birthday gift from Luci, years ago when she still towered over everyone on their block. When looking up at her was like looking at the sunrise; painful and beautiful all at once.

The guitar felt right in Crowley’s hands, and the name felt right on her tongue.

“Yes. She/her, for now.”

Newt grinned, a large dopey expression that Crowley hated to feel fond of so soon. “I think we’re going to be good roommates.” Again, that confidence shone through, even though his toothpick frame didn’t deserve it. Again, she didn’t think twice about believing him.

Instead of saying anything about the weird emotion bubbling in her throat, Crowley simply strapped her guitar around her back. “I’ve got band practice. See you later.”

* * *

Band practice was a location texted to her before she even arrived on campus. She knew where it was with more confidence than where she was supposed to sleep, yet as she descended the stairs to the physics building basement, her steps slowed.

She had been asked to be here, invited by the leader of the band. She was supposed to be here. No matter how she felt, this is where she knew she belonged.

Crowley pushed the door open.

“You made it!” Immediately she was pulled into a crushing hug. She patted Luci’s arms, with a little more force as her lungs started to protest the duration of the hug, until she was let go. The basement was exactly what one would imagine for physicists. The only light was the softly humming fluorescents, the only breeze was what Crowley had carried down the stairs with her. An old telescope sat unloved, staring at a beaten brick wall, next to a chalkboard that still had faded markings left over from its last class. Everything was still, dusty and stifling, if not for the quiet bass notes from one of the other band members.

“I wouldn’t miss this for anything. Introduce me and then we can shred?” She held up her guitar, an offering and an ancient promise.

That earned a bright, boisterous laugh from Luci, and an echo of muttered chuckles from the other band members. “Oh you won’t need that old thing.” Luci plucked the guitar from her fingers, like she had with the orientation packet, and set it on a haphazard stack of outdated textbooks. Her attention returned in the form of a heavy hand on Crowley’s shoulder, steering her towards the band. “You’re our front woman.”

That was news, but wasn’t exactly unwelcome.

“She is?” The bass guitar stopped, speaker crackling with the lack of input. The player was a good head shorter than Crowley, with dark shaggy hair and dead eyes. But for a second, those eyes lit up in realization. “Wait, sorry. Pronouns?”

“She/her, for now. I’m Crowley.”

“For now?” Luci echoed, hand tensing on Crowley’s shoulders in a way that nearly made her flinch.

The bassist gave a flash of a grin, all teeth, yet had the same unbridled joy that Newt had shared earlier. “Right on. I’m Beez, they/them.”

“And I assume this is the rest of the hive?” Crowley gave an easy grin in return, gesturing to the other two band members. Like a light switch, Beez’s grin twisted into something furious and their attention returned to Luci.

“So, she’s really our lead? Just going to let her bypass the initiation tasks?”

“Who do you take me for, Beez? Of course not.” Luci’s grip tightened on Crowley’s shoulder again as she breezed through the introductions of Hattie and Li, neither of whom bothered with so much as a hello.

That grip spun Crowley around, the basement blurring for a moment before a microphone stand came into focus when Luci let her go. “We’ll give her the works, but you have to hear why I’m making her the face of the Fallen Angels.” 

The bass resumed and Li started on a drumbeat. Together, they sounded familiar, a 70s banger that Luci used to make her listen to on the drive to school. She cleared her throat. She could sing, but not before curiosity got the best of her. “And ‘the works’ would be…?”

“You ask too many questions, Crowley.” Luci started on her guitar, a blood red masterpiece that she’d paid for on her second favorite stolen credit card. She’d bought Crowley a smoothie with that same card when they’d picked up the guitar together. “Just sing.”

Without thinking twice, she did.

“And that,” Luci said, as the last whine of her guitar faded away with the rest of the song. She was panting for breath, they all were. “Is why when I make a decision, you don’t question it.”

“Yes ma’am.” Beez gave a sloppy salute and Crowley didn’t bother holding back a grin. First step towards where she belonged, done. 

“So I imagine there won't be any questions when I tell you to give her your marlboros and lighter and walk her back to her dorm.”

“Fuck, this is my last pack.” The tension in the room spiked, but Beez didn’t seem bothered. “That wasn’t a question, it was bitching. You didn’t say no bitching.”

“Fair enough.” Luci shrugged and played a chord that shook Crowley’s heart against her ribs. “Bitch all you want, just get it done. Hattie, stay with me, we need to sync up on that bridge rift.”

Crowley grabbed her guitar as Beez grabbed her wrist, dragging her up the stairs and out into the hot summer evening. The warm breeze felt like winter compared to the sweltering of the basement haze. There was a click and a spark of vibrant orange just out of Crowley’s view, then the punch of smoke filled her senses.

Beez held the lit cigarette out, but Crowley didn’t move. “I have to know you can smoke this, kid, otherwise you’re not in the band.”

“So much for all those ‘just say no’ seminars, huh?” She joked, but still didn’t raise her hand. It would be nice if she could just do without thinking, like everything else today, but she was frozen. Her mind swirled like the smoke that curled around her fingers, seeming to draw her closer.

“Crowley, I really don’t have all night. Take it.” 

Her hand shook, but she didn’t drop the cigarette as she took it. She pressed the edge to her lips, pulling in a deep breath in. She’d seen how to do this in movies, with parties and booming music, with sultry temptresses and detectives. None of that compared to a swampy summer night, with only the crickets for comfort. An inferno took residence in her lungs and Crowley tried to hold it in before it forced smoke out between her teeth in a hacking cough.

“Incredible,” Beez rolled their eyes and handed Crowley the rest of the pack with the little lighter. It was such a small box, but it felt heavy in her hand. “Bring this back empty to the next rehearsal. And Luci will know if you just dumped ‘em somewhere.” 

“And then I’m in?”

Beez’s laughter was sharp and jagged, nearly buzzing with amusement that made Crowley’s skin crawl. “That’s the first task.” They didn’t say anymore, just turned around and descended back into the basement. With an absence of anything else to do, Crowley took another drag. The burn was warm rather than scandaling, the smoke soothing as it danced in elegant twists out her lips.

* * *

In the dark, it was as though the campus had become something else. Crowley felt as lost as she had that morning, but now she couldn’t see any smiling faces of stock photos enough to glare at them. At least the stars could guide her east, she wouldn’t end up walking for hours in the wrong direction.

“Shit.” She’d hit the glass building instead of her dorm. She glanced back to where she came, the dark leeching in around the tiny spots of street lamps along the paved path. The glass building had a light on. Couldn’t hurt to explore before she went back where she belonged. She dropped her second cigarette of the evening on the concrete, crushing it beneath her chucks.

The building was unlocked, labelled ‘Eastern Gate Student Center’ but it seemed abandoned. All the dates on the lobby’s calendar were from five years ago. Graffiti tagged along the inner hallways, leading to the stairs that took her up to the one source of working light that seemed to be left.

Something smelled like bread. Maybe the rats had unionized and followed their dreams like that one movie.

The door with the only light in the building was also unlocked, so she didn’t hesitate to enter. Whatever the rats were cooking had turned from curious to unavoidable temptation and Crowley figured she was larger than them so she could steal a piece without too much trouble.

The hinges were miraculously quiet, not alerting her presence to the sole occupant of the room and its general lack of rats. Another student was moving about the space. At least, it could be assumed she was a student - short and bubbly and dressed in a cottagecore style that only women under twenty-five or over sixty-five could truly pull off. She seemed to dance as she walked, skirt twirling as she reached for more of this or an extra cup of that. Her hair was a cloud of gold curls, cascading over her shoulders like something too divine for mere mortals. She was so focused on whatever she was creating, her cheeks decorated with a beautiful flush, her plush lips pursed together in a way that made the temperature of the room increase.

The smell of bread became the smell of burning.

“Your oven’s on fire.”

Crowley wasn’t sure how long she’d been standing there, watching like some teen movie stalker the audience was supposed to pretend was romantic, but she immediately wished she had watched a little longer. She wished she could smother her silence shattering words and watch this angel flutter about with the flour just another second more.

There was a clattering of pans and the flurry of dishrags pushing away smoke before the woman in the kitchen finally acknowledged her. “You are not my Uber eats driver with croissants.”

“And you’re not an impassioned team of creative rats.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” Crowley waved away the words, hoping the kitchen angel would ignore them. Couldn’t she go two seconds into meeting someone without being weird? “Why are you ordering croissants? Aren’t you making them?” At least the burnt husks looked like croissants.

“I was going to compare them.” The sigh that left those plush lips was unlike anything she’d ever heard. It was both petulant and posh to the point of laughability, while also making her want to drop to her knees and do whatever it took to chase away any trace of misery from this stranger. “Now I guess they’re the only thing I’ll be eating tonight.”

“What about that thing?” Crowley pointed to another dish, sitting away from the stove on a little saucer-like plate decorated with flowers. She moved further into the room, daring to be closer to this other student.

And, incredibly enough, the other student moved closer too. She gave another disappointed sigh at this dish. “Can’t finish that one, unfortunately. Needs my lighter and I…” She trailed off, plump fingers fidgeting with the fabric of her apron, like something out of a storybook. The intense need to poke at every little thing she did was overwhelming.

“And you…?”

“I gave it away! Stupid, I know, so expensive, culinary lighters. But my roommate was going to a midnight coven quest in the woods, please don’t ask what that means because I do not know. But she said she could start a fire the ‘scouting way’ whatever that means, and I didn’t want the poor thing to freeze so, well. I gave her mine. And now my crème brûlée is just… crème.”

Her French was over pronounced, embarrassingly so and yet so endearing. She could talk forever, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“You can borrow mine.”

Her blue eyes were so wide, blinking up like she’d been offered the moon and all the stars to go with it instead of a dirty lighter that had just been shoved from one teenager to another. “Really?” She held up the little dish, as though she was asking for the impossible and expecting it anyway.

“Of course,” and that felt like an answer that could be repeated forever. Whatever this angel wanted, of course she could have.

The lighter flickered to life and it was like the previously shattered silence had managed to stitch itself back together. It was only the quietly bubbling caramel and their breathing, so impossibly close together. The flames licked against Crowely’s skin as she twisted her wrist to follow along the surface of the cream, but that spark of pain was pennies compared to the endless riches of this angel’s smile.

“Thank you.” Once the crust was deemed cooked, the dish was returned to its little plate. “I’m Azira Fell, first year, culinary major. You can call me Azira, though.” Like they were centuries in the past and using first names was an intimate permission to be given.

And she had given it to her. It took a while to respond, the honor of that permission would surely leave anyone dumbstruck. “Crowley,” she managed.

Azira tilted her head, curls bouncing with her. “Just one name? Oh, like Cher! Or Prince!”

“Yes.” Crowley could feel a blush rising on her cheeks and fought to keep it down. How could a stranger make sense of her own name more than friends she’d known for decades?

“Well, Crowley,” she said her name like she was tasting it, tongue darting out against her lips for just a moment and the air was sucked out of the room. “Since you helped cook, care to help taste test?” There was a bit of shuffling through the drawers of the kitchen, before Azira returned with two spoons. She handed one to Crowley, who took it without thinking twice.

The crack of the caramelized sugar was satisfying in a way Crowley didn’t expect. “So are you, uh, getting ahead on cooking homework?” She winced, the words sounding stupid as they echoed in her ears.

Yet when Azira laughed, it was like bells and Crowley decided she’d say whatever stupid thing came to mind in order to hear it again. “I wish. Most of my assignments appear to be reports, according to the syllabi. Which is fine, I don’t mind, but I’d rather be here.”

“How’d you even find this place?”

“My brother’s a senior, he knows everything about Agnes University.” She grimaced, like talking about her brother left a sour taste in her mouth, and once again, Crowley wanted to poke apart every word until she understood each piece. To keep her reckless mouth occupied before it asked something rude, Crowley scooped up as much crème brûlée as she could and stuffed it in her mouth.

Oh.

“You like it?” Whatever expression Crowley was making seemed to have dissipated the thought of Azira’s brother. Whatever expression it was must be close enough to positive to put that adorable overdose of hope in Azira’s eyes.

Whatever expression she had couldn’t possibly convey the horror taking place on her tongue. Despite only picking up the habit thirty minutes prior, Crowley thanked Luci for saving her tastebuds with the knowledge she could drown out this memory with ash as soon as she left Azira’s sight.

“Crowley?”

She had to say something. The hope was fading for those wide blue eyes and Crowley couldn’t stand it. But she couldn’t lie; she didn’t think she could ever lie to this angel, it felt impossible.

She swallowed and managed to keep a grimace off her face. “I’ve never had anything like it.”

That seemed to do the trick. Azira’s smile was blinding, and as she chattered on about the ingredients and the process, Crowley realized she would eat whatever over-sweetened, undercooked disaster this angel placed in front of her, just for another few moments of this.


	2. Famine and Macarons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azira's POV and the academia aspect of university.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've tagged for self esteem issues, and I'd want to put a slightly more specific TW for this chapter that Gabriel is actively body shaming Azira for part of this. Didn't really know how to word that properly in the tags.

Azira Fell knew it was normal to be nervous about attending university, but she was never a normal person. She’d arrived on campus with the map memorized, a week full of pre-scheduled meetings with advisors, and her suitcase full of all manner of sweaters that proudly said Agnes University.

Of course Gabriel had insisted on giving her a tour anyway, but that hardly mattered. She wasn’t nervous because she had no reason to be. She successfully became friends with her roommate, joined the recommended three extra-curriculars, and aced the assignments for the first month of classes. Her planner was a masterpiece, her mind was cultivated, and she was perfectly on track to graduate in three years.

So when she went to place exactly two pencils above her notebook, position her sweater so it didn’t ride up over her hips as she sat, and set her bag down in the chair on her left, all in one perfectly fluid motion as she had done every day since the beginning, and instead dropped her bag in someone’s lap, it probably wasn’t appropriate to be annoyed. That, of course, did not stop her from being annoyed.

“Excuse me.”

“Don’t worry about it. New button on your bag?”

Azira wished her irritation could have evaporated, but for some reason, it only felt more profound. It was irritation, wasn’t it? The way her heart pounded and she felt a little dizzy, that was close to how she felt with anger. “Crowley. What are you doing here?”

“Attending a class, same as you.”

Crowley didn’t even have a notebook out, how was she supposed to learn anything if she didn’t take notes? “And you decided to change seats today? And haven’t said hello to me all this time?” The audacity. That’s what the pang in her heart was, shock from the audacity that Crowley didn’t have the manners to say something to a friend. They were friends, weren’t they? She’d been so excited to jot down in her planner that she had made not one, but two friends in her first month of university.

“What? Nah, this is the first time I’m trying this one.”

“We are eight classes in! You’ve missed so much and we have midterms soon. Oh goodness, here you can share my notes–”

Crowley laughed, sharp and confident, like she was with everything and Azira fought the urge to roll her eyes as she memorized the sound. “Angel, I’m not taking any tests. No notes required.”

“How exactly are you getting out of testing for Elizabethan Literature 105?” Frankly Azira would like to get out of the testing too. She enjoyed reading Shakespeare, but the essays were rather stressful. Not that she wasn’t always prompt with the deadlines. Not that it was hard. It would just be nice to know of other options.

“I’m not really taking the class,” Crowley whispered, grinning like she did with some troublesome prank. “I asked the prof if I could just sit in. Wanted to see what it was like.”

“But you’re studying music. You don’t need to be here.”

“I don’t need to do anything. Frankly, neither do you. I don’t think The Bard put much culinary expertise in Hamlet.”

There were a handful of things Crowley said that seemed to echo around in Azira’s brain for days afterwards. Never had anything like it. Your dress suits you. You already know what to do, just do it with style. And she could already tell this was going to join the ranks. You don’t need to do anything. How novel. Then again, like most of what Crowley said, it wasn't true.

“I’m minoring in literature. I do actually need to be here.”

“But do you want to be here?”

And always with the questions! “Of course! I’ve always loved books, it makes sense that I should study it on a higher level.”

Crowley shrugged, like the answer made more sense to hear than it did for Azira say. The professor chose that moment to walk in and the conversation fell away. And Azira was right, the class was something she wanted to be here for. Crowley didn’t seem to enjoy it as much, spending half of the lecture glancing at her phone. 

As the other students poured out of the room, Azira slowly packed her bag. She subtly watched Crowley talk with the professor, the two shaking hands before Crowley returned to lean on Azira’s desk.

“Since you were obviously watching us, I assume I don’t have to explain again why I don’t need your notes.”

Once again, the audacity. Though it wasn’t really any of Azira’s business what classes Crowley did or did not take, there was still a pang in her heart at the sudden loss of sharing this. It was something she’d been given only fifty minutes prior, yet she immediately became attached to it. The nerve of Crowley, that had to be what Azira was feeling, irritation at how ever-changing she was.

And yet, she couldn’t explain what came out of her mouth as irritation. “Do you have any other classes today? I was hoping to pick up some supplies for my next project and it’s a bit of a hike.”

“You need a ride? I can take you, anywhere you want to go.” Another lie. Azira had pieced together Crowley’s schedule already. She knew there was some sort of physics thing Crowley attended on Tuesdays, usually after lunch but before meeting with her band. She knew Crowley was busy, but she’d asked anyway. And, as expected, Crowley lied.

Azira shouldn’t be friends with someone like Crowley. Gabriel knew it, even Anathema acted strangely whenever she spoke about her, but for some reason Azira kept doing this. “If it’s no trouble.”

“Never any trouble for you, angel.” Crowley twirled her keys around her fingers, as though they appeared from thin air. The move would be more charming if they hadn’t been so glaringly outlined from the skin-tight pockets of her clinging denims.

Of course the drive was trouble, it always was. Crowley drove like a loon, even though the speciality grocer was only a few blocks away. A five minute drive became two and Azira was left dizzy as she stumbled out of the passenger side. 

“What are you cooking today?” Crowley asked as they wandered through the tiny aisles. Her fingertips seemed to drum along every surface, but not with impatience. Like she was cataloguing the store through sound. 

The shop wasn’t laid out like the one Azira usually ventured, so wandering was the only way to travel it. “Macarons. I need almond flour and this is the only shop that carries it in bulk.”

“Bulk, huh? Long night of cooking, then?”

She bit back a sigh. It was soothing, a spoon in her hand and the heat of the oven against her calves, creating masterpieces from little specks of sugar. It was right, the feeling of being in the kitchen. But it was lonely. Anathema had offered to keep her company a handful of times but it wasn’t the same. “Yes. You could swing by after band rehearsal, if you’d like.”

Crowley was leering at her now, leaning over a case of canned goods. “Taste test again?” The nerve. If she didn’t want to come help, she could just say no. She didn’t have to tease.

“Well, they’re really not supposed to be eaten until sitting overnight.”

“Then I’ll swing by your dorm tomorrow morning. And the kitchen tonight to make sure the batter tastes good.”

Crowley had only been to Azira’s dorm once, helping drop off a cake that required two people to carry. And she mentioned coming over, meeting the campus witch and all, nearly every time they hung out, yet she never followed through. That was Crowley, Azira supposed. A lot of talk, but about as much substance as she could fit in her tiny pockets.

“You don’t need to.” Azira whispered. She shouldn’t be distracted, eyes swimming for no reason. She needed to find the flour. There was no point to be so focused on this repeated conversation. It always ended the same way.

“Of course I don’t.” Crowley had said that in the dining hall, in the East Gate kitchen, on the roof of the physics building on the night she’d shown Azira a meteor shower. But she never huffed, like did now. Had never said, like she said in class and was saying now, “I don’t need to do anything. But I–” and then she stopped and the curiosity nearly drove Azira mad in the split seconds she had to wait. Every repeat felt worth paying attention to now that the conversation was different.

“But you?”

“Almond flour.”

“You don’t need almond flour?”

“Ngk, don’t, not me. It’s you and it’s, ugh.” Crowley rolled her eyes and put both hands on Azira’s shoulders, spinning her around to face the almond flour. 

“Oh. Almond flour.” They were up on the top of the shelf. Azira could tell, even before she tried, that she wouldn’t be able to reach them. She twisted in Crowley’s grip. “Could you…?”

Before she could finish, Crowley was already reaching for it, her dark shirt riding up along her back to reveal a distracting line of freckled skin above even darker denim. And just as quick as it appeared, the skin was gone and Azira had her hands full of flour.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. No really, don’t. Newt keeps asking me to grab things for him and I’m trying to start slouching so he thinks I’m shorter than him.”

With all the confusing feelings that Azira, despite all her knowledge, could not understand, she felt something very clear bubble up inside her. Laughter spilled from her lips and she felt a beaming smile break across her face at Crowley. “I can’t imagine that’d be easy to do. Anathema once explained him to me as a… it was one of her Twitter things. Short king, or something like that?”

Crowley barked out a laugh, rougher than Azira’s own but just as sweet. They reached the counter as Crowley continued to ask how she really didn’t have a Twitter, but even that chatter didn’t feel as grating as usual. Or maybe it did - it left Azira with the same heart racing dizziness as they left under the happy chime of bells from the grocer’s door, but she knew it wasn’t irritation now. It couldn’t be when it made her smile like this.

Though the proper word for it felt just out of reach. Like she could see it, but couldn’t say it yet. Maybe Anathema would know what it was.

Azira’s musings stopped as Crowley held out a hand in front of her, eyes darting around the sidewalk. “Crowley?”

“Gimme a sec. I think…” Amusing. That was the word for when Crowley spoke in these half sentences. How did Azira not realize that before?

Crowley had taken on a sort of crouch, still scanning before her eyes locked onto something. “Yes! Okay, angel, when I come back, we run to the car, okay?”

“Run to the– where are you going? Why are we running?” She clutched the flour to her chest, if only because it felt like the right thing to do.

Crowley looked away from her target, the focus of those intense eyes shining through her dark shades. “Just trust me, okay?”

“Okay.” How strange, it was so easy to say. So easy to mean.

And then Crowley darted away, running into the street and ducking behind a cement mixer. Her hands were clasped together and, when Azira squinted a little, she could see they were held like a makeshift weapon. It was enough to make Azira bubble over with laughter again, but she kept her lips pressed tightly together. She wouldn’t want to blow Crowley’s cover after all; and just that thought gave her another rush of strange, overflowing joy.

With another few ducks and dives, Crowley reached her target, snatched it up, and sprinted across the street towards Azira. “Come on, run!” She hollered, grin wild and manic as she grabbed Azira’s hand to pull her along.

“Why on earth are you stealing that?”

“Why not!” Crowley cackled as they ran. No one chased after them, none of the passers by seemed to spare them a glance all the way to the car. Not that Azira would know if they were being followed or not. The entirety of her attention seemed to be absorbed with memorizing the feeling of Crowley’s hand clinging tight to her own.

* * *

“And she stole a traffic cone! It was so strange.”

“Azira, babe, that is really not the point I don’t think.” Anathema was hanging upside down on their bunkbed. She claimed it helped her thing better, but when Azira tried it, it just gave her a headache. She still can’t phantom how a headache makes it better to think. “She held. Your hand.”

“She did.” It was a simple statement of fact, yet Azira couldn’t not smile when she said it.

Anathema made a noise somewhere between joyous delight and a hawk shrieking as it caught a mouse. She curled up from her hanging position and flipped down to land feet first on the ground. Maybe that was why Azira didn’t think better upside down, she was too preoccupied with how she’d get back right-side up again. It’s not like she could make her body do that.

“Your face!” Anathema put her hands on Azira’s cheeks and her delight was almost infectious.

“What about my face?” She asked, her laughter two-parts uncomfortable, but one-part genuine.

Anathema just shook her head. “And you thought the Knight of Cups was about your new measuring cup.”

“What does your card game have to do with Crowley stealing a traffic cone?”

“Stop it with the traffic cone. It’s about her holding your hand. It’s about the way your eyes get soft when you talk about her. It’s about how the only person you spend time with other than me is _her_.”

Anathema was all but spinning the center of their tiny dorm and Azira had to look away. Their desks were pushed together, on the opposite wall from their bunk beds, and Azira brought her focus back to her open and unhighlighted textbook. “You make me sound clingy.”

“What?” She could hear the spinning had stopped. “‘Zira no. You sound like you’re in love. How did you get something so negative out of all my positive energy?” A hand rested on Azira’s forehead as Anathema curled around her and her desk chair. “Are you feeling alright? You’re aura is all weird.”

“My aura is fine.” Azira slammed her book shut, surrendering any hope of studying. She moved away from Anathema, bringing her knees to her chest as she sat on her bed. “Love is a bit sudden, don’t you think?”

“Knight of Cups doesn’t lie. But fine, you have a crush,” Anathema sang, teasing in a way that Azira knew friends were supposed to. “Is that better?”

“No,” she admitted. She sounded glum to her own ears and she knew she shouldn’t. Teasing is what friends did. This is what she’d wanted when she put ‘make a friend’ on her college to-do list.

And besides, it’s not like Anathema was wrong, now that she thought about it. “A crush.” It felt strange just to say. Strange in how novel it was, and even stranger in how true. “How embarrassing.”

Of the many things that could be said about this particular dorm room, silence was not one of them. So as the moment stretched on without Anathema saying anything, Azira managed to look away from her careful study of her own socks.

Anathema was staring at her, nearly unblinking. As if that alone wasn’t unnerving enough, her expression was harder than Azira had ever seen it directed at another person. Anathema seemed to save this expression for a bad tea leaf reading. “What?”

“What?” Anathema parroted, before she started shouting. “What! You have romantic feelings for someone and you write it off as embarrassing?”

“I didn’t realize you felt so strongly–”

“No, none of that! Should I have been embarrassed when I told you about my crush on Newt?”

Someone thumped on the wall between the dorm rooms and Anathema just flipped them off. It didn’t matter that they couldn’t see her, the message was just as strong and she was just as unrepentant for it.

“But you’re you.” Because that was the only way Azira could explain it. “And I’m…” She uncurled slightly, gesturing to herself. The mirror Anathema had hung on the back of their door was thankfully not visible from Azira’s seat on the bed, but she could imagine what she looked like. She could feel that this sweater was starting to get tight, that her skirt was wrinkled from how she’d been sitting. Her hair was probably in disarray, but not the artful storm cloud that Anathema’s was. Azira knew, for a fact, that she always looked disheveled. Not in the cool ‘who cares what you think’ way Crowley was, but in the ‘I can so very, very much and still can’t land it’ way that was always going to define her.

“You’re what.” Anathema said it flat. It was a question, surely, but nothing in her voice would hint at if Azira should even bother to respond. Was Anathema really going to make her put words to it? That felt unnecessarily cruel.

A chime went off on Azira’s phone and she quietly thanked God for excellent timing. “I have to go. I’ll bring you back macarons.”

“Please remember to make the frosting with sugar instead of salt this time– Wait! Hey! We are not done talking about this!” But Azira was already out the door with her bag of ingredients.

* * *

That first night, before the start of the semester, Crowley had arrived when the bake was nearly finished. Two days later, when Azira was cooking again, Crowley wandered in half way through. She wasn’t always there, couldn’t possibly be with how erratic college schedules were, but Azira was grateful to have found herself with a partner more often than not.

Tonight, Crowley was sitting on the countertop when Azira opened the door.

“You can’t smoke in here.”

“Hello to you too.” Crowley snuffed out the cigarette against the black of the stovetop and Azira should probably have said something about it. Then again, stovetops were meant for burnt things, weren’t they?

Crowley was still sitting there as Azira laid out the ingredients. Her fingers drummed against the wooden sides of the central island. She picked up a bag of sugar, skimmed the label, then dropped it back down in a cloud of snow-like dust. It was hard for Azira to keep the grin off her face, watching the scene play out while she prepared her measuring cups. Perhaps it wasn’t nice, keeping herself quiet when she knew Crowley couldn’t stand it, but teasing is what friends did. And it was always so amusing, the way Crowley could ask without asking. It would only be a few seconds longer before…

“Never had a macaron before,” Crowley offered, trying not to sound desperate as she nearly begged to fill the silence.

“Oh, my dear you are going to love them!” For some reason, the words made her blush. ‘Dear’ ‘love’ ‘my’. Maybe Azira should be more careful, it wouldn’t do to have Crowley know about whatever Anathema thought was happening here. So she prattled on about her last trip to France, then about her first trip to France. About the bakery down the street from her high school, about a thousand different flavors she hoped to make some day.

She was sure that Crowley was just grateful for the silence to be filled, but there was something about the way she leaned in, nearly burning herself as the oven preheated. The way she held her pointed chin in her slender hands. Like Crowley really enjoyed listening to what Azira was saying.

Wouldn't that be nice.

After a complete narration of the preparation, the confections were frosted and Azira packed them up in a sealed box. Crowley was up to her elbows in soapy water, scrubbing out the leftover batter from the stainless steel bowls. Azira wasn’t quite sure when that tradition had popped up. She wasn’t usually one to complain, loath dish-doing as she might, but she must have rambled about it once or twice if Crowley picked up on it.

“You don’t need to do that, you know.” She said, guilt eating away at her.

“I don’t need to do anything, Azira.”

“You can’t honestly tell me you want to wash dishes.”

The sound of the sink disappeared and the quiet that was left over was nearly overwhelming. Maybe Crowley had a point, wanting something to fill the void.

“You have no idea what I want.” Crowley wasn’t looking at her, seemed to be staring into the spotless surface of the bowl. She spoke so quietly, Azira almost didn't hear her. And even as she did, she wouldn’t have been sure it was Crowley, speaking in anything other than a shout or an overdramatic stage whisper, unless she watched those perfectly cherry lips moving.

Despite it all, Azira couldn’t stand to let another one of Crowley’s lies linger in the air for a moment longer. “Yes I do. I know you. You want to study music and physics. You want to be a rockstar and see the stars. It’s very poetic, actually.” 

“Poetic? Me?” That seemed to snap Crowley out whatever funk she’d fallen into. She looked away from her distorted reflection, lopsided smile back in place as she looked at Azira like she’d announced she was going on a diet.

The expression dropped immediately, however. “Wait, what do you mean you know I want to study physics? I’m not even– It’s just the one class and it’s not like– what?”

Oh. Maybe she didn’t know Crowley very well. Unfortunate, but not surprising. “You’re always talking about that intro class. I assumed you were double majoring.”

“Double…” Crowley trailed off, mouth contorting similar to how it did when she tried to read ingredients off the back of Azira’s supplies. When it finally tasted right in her mouth, she shoved her glasses into her hair and looked at Azira with eyes so wide they could light up the entire quad. “I could do that.”

How could she not smile when someone looked at her like that? “You could. If you wanted.”

“There’s a lot of things I want to do.”

Maybe Azira could have held back her over expressive face, the way her overly plump cheeks strained against the force of her smile. She could have been demure and polite and small like she was supposed to be, if someone else was looking at her like this. But this wasn’t someone else. It was Crowley. “Would you want to come to my dorm tomorrow morning? To try the macarons when they’re ready?”

“Well I don’t have to,” Crowley teased. It was easier to hear, when she knew that truth behind the teasing. When she knew that Crowley might actually… 

“You don’t.”

“Ten o’clock?”

“Don’t you have morning classes?”

Crowley scoffed, as though that were an answer to Azira’s perfectly sensible question.

“Well, I have morning classes. Can you come by before eight?”

She didn’t get a response immediately, which was normal, she knew that. And yet the handful of seconds of waiting, the echoing silence, it all made Azira want to scream. To tell Crowley that she didn’t want her there anywhere, while also begging her to come stay at Azira’s dorm and never leave.

Thankfully, she yelled neither of those things, leaving just enough space to hear Crowley say, “Anything for you, angel.”

Another turn of phrase that would take residence in Azira’s heart. Two in one day, how lucky was she?

* * *

The knock on the door was at precisely 7:58 and Azira would have liked to be impressed. Crowley was ready before she had even finished picking out her blouse for the day. “One moment!” She called, grateful Anathema had disappeared for some sunrise hike.

Feeling daring, Azira left the blouse unselected and simply tugged on her bathrobe. It wasn’t really that dramatic, she rationalized as she reached for the door. She wore it out in the hall to walk to the showers every day. Crowley could have easily seen her in any other circumstance.

“You are not Crowley.”

“And you are basically naked. Ew. Should I come back later?” Gabriel covered his eyes, acting more like a high school senior than a college one.

“No, just, uh, give me a minute.” Azira slammed the door and scrambled to wiggle on an old dress. It was getting a bit small on her, but it was the first thing she could grab.

“Eh, not sure that’s an improvement, sis. Don’t really think bodycon is right for your body type.” Gabriel shuffled past her, dropping onto her desk chair. “Where’s the roomie?”

“Out.”

“Partying? You should do some of that, ya know. Make some friends.”

Azira sat on the bed, hoping the way she held her arms across her stomach looked more natural than it felt. “I have friends.”

“Your roommate shouldn’t count, but even if she did, I don’t think two goth girls are better than one.”

Azira was pretty sure Crowley’s aesthetic wasn’t technically goth, but the less she talked about her new crush with her brother, the better. “Did you have something you wanted to talk about, Gabriel?”

“Oh, yeah, I would have texted but I know how you are.” He rolled his eyes. “Semester’s almost over and I was curious if you’re still doing the whole Easy-Bake-Oven thing. You still haven’t given me your password, otherwise I would have checked myself.”

“And I’m not going to give you my academic password.” Repeated conversations with Crowley were all well and good, but she was just about at the end of her rope on this conversation with Gabriel.

“Zee,” He dragged one letter out long enough to allow Azira to contemplate changing her name, but even with all that time, no good alternatives came to mind. “You shouldn’t have to worry about all those bills yourself. I’m the economics major, I’m literally more qualified to do it than you are.”

“I appreciate your offer, but the answer is no.”

“Fine fine, what about my other offer? You can be qualified to manage your own money.” He moved from the chair to sit next to her on the bed, slinging one arm over her shoulder and holding out the other as though showing off the glories of the world. “I’ve got a whole semester left to tutor you if you want to join me in the econ building. They have the best coffee shop on campus too.”

“I don’t drink coffee.” How many times did the house staff bring her tea when they had family breakfast? How many teacups had their aunts given her for Christmas? How did he not know this about her?

“You’ll learn. Sunshine, you’re young. You don’t know what you want yet, but I can tell you that cooking is not what you want. Besides,” His arm dropped from her shoulder to elbow her stomach. “I think sampling too much of the merchandise counts as a sunk cost.”

She was halfway across the room before she even realized she stood up. “I’ve got class. Can we talk about this another time?” Ideally half-past never.

Gabriel sighed, like he always did when Azira managed to squeeze her way out of this conversation. “We will talk about this another time.” He pushed himself up, and opened the door, only to find Crowley on the other side.

“You are not Azira,” she said. If Gabriel heard the burst of laughter that escaped Azira for only a moment, he didn’t make any comment on it.

“And you are in my way.” He pushed past her and footsteps retreated down the hall.

Crowley leaned against the doorframe, watching him for a moment. “Well isn’t he charming. I assume that’s the Gabriel I’ve heard so much about?”

Azira nodded. She was still just standing in the middle of her own room, unable to really move or speak anything else. Crowley’s gaze shifted to her, eyes tracing over her for a moment. She started to say something, but stopped, reconsidering. “Can I come in?”

Some of the tension finally seeped out of Azira at the soft request, only to be replaced with tension of a different sort. She managed another nod and Crowley stepped just far enough in the tiny dorm to close the door. 

“I, uh. Here. And the macarons? But another time is fine too. If now, ya know, it, uh. Not good for macarons.”

Anathema was right. Only a crush could make Azira think that aimless stuttering was cute. It became a little easier to breathe, which she was pretty sure was not how crushes were supposed to go, but Azira was not ungrateful for the anomaly. “Now is good.”

She grabbed the container off her desk, popping it open before holding it out for Crowley. She watched Crowley hesitate, fingers flexing, the gears of her mind nearly visible as she carefully plucked one macaron out. Azira grabbed one for herself and hardly closed the container before Crowley put the whole macaron in her mouth.

“You’re supposed to savor it,” she chastised.

“It’s… not sweet?” 

Azira frowned at her own macaron. “Anathema reminded me about the sugar.”

“No, I mean. It’s sweet but it’s not like the things you usually make. It’s lemon-y.” Crowley licked her lips and whatever she said after that was radio static.

“Come again?”

“No, it’s fine, I just thought I’d ask,” Crowley rolled her eyes behind her shades. Her eyes wandered further though, a connect-the-dots through the posters around the tiny dorm. “I didn’t know you kept plants.”

“I don’t. It’s all Anathema’s. And that’s for the best. I’ve got black thumbs for everything but baking. And sometimes even then.”

“You’ve only burned like, two things this month.”

“Three. You weren’t there for the mille feuille.” Azira felt her frown deepen. She’d have to talk with Gabriel again sooner rather than later; all her burnt work was a bad omen.

“I don’t know what that is,” Crowley said, not caring in the slightest that her culinary world was so small. She pointed to the container of macarons and continued. “But whatever those are? Keep making them.”

Something warm fluttered in her chest and Azira squashed it like a pesky gnat. “I have to get to class. Some of us are early birds.”

“More worms for you then,” Crowley opened the door, holding it for Azira. Their sides brushed together in the narrow door frame, the thinning fabric of this too tight dress letting Crowley’s body heat radiate through. It was a blessing and a burn all at once. “New dress?”

Of course she had to notice. Everything Azira wanted to hide, Crowley saw. How could she even see anything, wearing sunglasses inside? “Old, actually.” Speaking was getting difficult again, but of course Crowley didn’t notice that.

“Is everything you own vintage?” She was smiling, but Azira’s eyes were swimming. She didn’t wait for Crowley to catch up as she made her way out of the dorm building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Death and Crème Glacée

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's POV again. More band shenanigans, as well as closing the distance between her and Azira.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live and die for the friendship I've written between Crowley and Newt.

She’d never really liked the movies where the protagonist went to a magical place and never wanted to leave. They annoyed her in a way she couldn’t understand until the fall break was over. Returning to her dorm, she echoed every character from those movies and vowed never to leave again.

“You’ll have to leave when we graduate,” Newt pointed out, but Crowley couldn’t bother to lift her head from the perfectly breathable position of face smoothing, so hoping that she flipped him off in the general direction of where he was sitting would have to be enough.

Their dorm together was perfect. This pillow was perfect, the mattress that should have made her joint condition scream (but didn’t) was perfect. She’d so desperately missed the way the moonlight streamed in just right through their tiny window, to sparkle against the stain glass shards she’d hot-glued into an ashtray, creating a disco ball for perfect midnight dance parties as they finished their homework. Newt’s ironic-but-slowly-becoming-not-ironic motivational posters that he bought at a sale the first week of classes were perfect. Newt was also perfect. They were so different and yet she shared more with him than she even shared with Luci these days. And despite that, she was still so close to becoming a proper Fallen Angel. It was all perfect.

Smoking hadn’t been that hard, and stealing was easy. Whatever else they asked of her, she wasn’t worried. Everything about her life here felt in place. She wanted all of it to stay preserved in this perfect moment that she would never ever leave from.

“Hard time going back home or something?” He asked and his status as ‘best friend’ was immediately revoked. Crowley left her bed to sulk in front of the mirror, picking at her outfit.

“Or something. What about you, you seem too chipper.”

She caught his reflection, watching her until she spoke and then looking away as a blush crept up his neck. He attempted to busy himself with the custom keyboard he was building, but Crowley wasn’t about to let that slide. She lounged herself over his shoulders like a cloak, and whispered against his ear, “Newton. Tell me your secretsss.”

He pushed her away just enough to press his palm against his ear. “Ew. Stop it. No secrets.”

“Yes secrets. I can smell them.” She moved into his lap, long legs still holding most of her weight, even as Newt put his hand on her shoulders. It was his fault they were so touchy feely, after all. Crowley certainly wasn’t like this with any other friend she’d known. He’d all but crawled into her lap the first horror movie binge they had. It’d been funny, but then every movie binge started resulting in that and she didn’t stop it. When he’d dragged her to a freezing rugby match to watch Anathema play, she needed to extract revenge. Anathema unfortunately didn’t seem jealous, but at least Crowley had been kept warm.

“It’s not secrets. You’re smelling the new cologne my mom bought me.”

“Well it’s good. Hope you’re not allergic to it.”

Newt stopped breathing for a moment, before gasping when he remembered he could. “Don’t do that.” He swatted at her shoulder. “I’m not allergic.”

“Why then, Newton, is your face all red?” She felt the leer that crossed her face more than she controlled it, not that she was complaining when it felt so good.

Newt only blushed darker. “That’s not my name. What’s the point of picking a new name if you’re just going to reassign me a new one?”

“Newt is your name, yes, but I need a full name to call you. It lends weight to a moral argument.”

“I thought that was guns?”

Crowley stuck her tongue out. “You’ve been hanging out with Azira too much.”

“You haven’t been hanging out with her enough, actually. Also, that’s not her view, it’s just what she parrots from her brother.” Newt shifted Crowley off his lap, only so they could both lounge out on his bed. His mom had sent him glow in the dark stars in a ‘care package’, whatever that was supposed to be. Crowley stared up at them, a good substitute for the real thing in the middle of the day.

“I know that. If you haven’t met him yet, don’t. Guy’s a few clips shy of a holster. ”

Newt tilted his head and the static against the bedspread made his hair twist in odd angles. “That’s not how guns work.”

“My point exactly. You’re distracting me.” She sat up, glaring down at Newt who cowered slightly. “Newt. What happened over break.”

It was not a request, Newt knew that. He sighed and closed his eyes, as though not seeing Crowley would make her any less effective. “Anathema and I live, like, five minutes from each other.”

“Yeah, duh, we can see the other dorm building from our window.”

“No, like, where her parents live is near where my parents live. We ran into each other at a coffee shop.”

Crowley was all but looming over him. “You what?” She abandoned her sunglasses in the safety of their dorm, letting wide amber eyes showcase her delight.

Though he couldn’t see her with his eyes closed, Newt still threw an arm over his face. “So of course we hung out for most of the break.”

“Of course,” Crowley drawled.

“Shut up,” he groaned. “Nothing came of it.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“Like, nothing nothing or–”

Newt’s hand flew off his face and onto Crowleys, managing to cover her mouth as he finally glared up at her, redder than ever before. “Nothing nothing. I’m not making the first move.”

“One of you has to!” His hand muffled her, but not by much.

“You don’t get it,” he said, “someone like you could ask out anyone and they’d say yes.”

Scooting back enough to free herself from Newt’s muzzling, Crowley squinted. “Like me?”

He gestured vaguely at all of her but she still didn’t quite understand. “Point is, I can’t just ask Anathema.”

“Except that you should.”

“Don’t talk to me about who should ask who out.”

That, she could immediately understand. “Rude.”

When inspiration struck, Crowley found that time tended to get a bit wobbly. The first moment she held a guitar, her fingers had barely touched the strings, trying to memorize every microscopic notch, before Luci had laughed at her for being a space case and freezing for an hour. Crowley’s first song had come to her in a rush, every lyric and chord played a thousand times in the span of a second as she scrambled to write it all down.

When Azira put together that Crowley could be a physics major, she froze for a little too long, enough to be noticed, but in those seconds she flew across time and space and saw every particle of the infinite cosmos.

This moment of inspiration was not quite so grand, but it was still a rush of the next several years all laid out clearly before her. Newt and Anathema were the closest Crowley could come to believing in soulmates - she knew they both adored each other and they were just the right kind of weird to fit together, even if they didn’t know it. If they just had the right nudge, she’d secure a spot as best man for a wedding because Newt didn’t have any brothers and he knew Crowley looked good in a suit.

“How about a deal?” She felt that leer creep across her mouth again and she tried to force it down.

Newt sat up, staring at her cautiously. “Every time you say that, I end up spending a fortune in cab fare.”

“That was only twice and I paid you back.” She waved the memory away, leaving room for this brilliant idea. “No no, this deal does not involve drinking or anything at all suspicious. This one is very simple.”

“You don’t do simple.” His eyes narrowed further.

“I don’t, but you’re my best friend so I’m making an exception.” She held out her hand. “If I can ask out Azira Fell, you have to ask out Anathema Device.”

Newt clasped his hand against hers almost immediately, and they shook without thinking about it. “You have a deal, Crowley.”

For a reason she couldn’t quite explain, hearing him say that made her laugh.

* * *

Instead of gathering in the basement of the physics building, Beez had texted Crowley to meet a few blocks off of their little college town’s Main Street. The Fallen Angels had bummed around here before, waiting for a pub to open or trying to get a local stage to let them play. Crowley had a preferred parking spot and everything by this point.

“Am I to assume we’re not day drinking?” She asked as she approached the group. Their usual dive bar was a few streets over, and this boulevard seemed like its shops would overcharge for a latte, let alone liquor. Luci was nowhere to be seen but the pang of disappointment that had wrought the first six times had faded into something nearly apathetic by now.

Hattie and Li didn’t bother to acknowledge her, too busy whispering to each other about how the worms that devour their corpses should fall in love too, devolving into some sort of poly-worm relationship theory that Crowley genuinely wished she could unhear. Would she and Azira be that disgusting? Hopefully not, though Azira would be likely to use baking-themed pet names and that was… Well, that was something. Crowley would have to consider how she felt about that idea later.

“You better be sober,” Beez had the decency to look up from their phone. “I’ll make you do a lot of stupid shit for this band, but you have to be sober for this task.”

It had taken more than a few months, but Crowley had finally stopped asking for any sort of explanation to the vague details that seemed to define the Fallen Angels. Either someone would tell her or they wouldn’t, and asking wouldn’t change that.

“So a traffic cone, huh?” Hattie sneered, since mocking Crowley’s most recent initiation task was worth pulling her attention away from her girlfriend.

Crowley just shrugged, reaching into her jacket pocket for a cigarette. “The task was to steal something no one else in the group had. And I was right.”

Beez just scoffed. The delivery of the traffic cone had been one of the few rehearsals Luci actually showed up for. She thought the whole thing was hilarious, which seemed to make everyone else hate it. “Fine, but you won’t slither your way out of this one.”

“Oh! Slither! That’s why she’s getting the snake,” Li cackled as the realization hit her and Hattie seemed so love struck at the sound that it could almost be considered cute.

Beez just scrubbed a hand over their face. “Yes, that’s why Luci picked the snake.”

Crowley glanced up and down the boulevard. “I don’t see a pet shop.”

“Fuck, you’re all so stupid.” Beez grabbed Crowley’s shoulders and spun her around to face the store they’d been standing in front of.

“Brimstone Ink,” Crowley read the sign, then squinted to read the small print. “They’re not open for another two hours.”

Beez didn’t seem to care about the small print. They kept a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, dragging her along as they walked to the door. Though small, Beez’s fist was unavoidably loud banging against the door. “You’ve polluted your lungs, you’ve bested our famine, now you either go to war or you die.”

“Die?” Panic was rising up in Crowley.

“Your girlfriend lives with a witch and you still don’t know shit about shit.”

“Azira’s not my girlfriend.”

Crowley didn’t need to see Beez’s face to know they were rolling their eyes. Their whole body seemed to roll with the motion. “Death is about transformation. Once you get this tattoo, you can’t change back.”

Crowley tried to step away from the door, but Beez held firm. “Can’t we just come back later?”

“Nope, I got class later and Luci texted me the design you’re getting. So you’re asking the artist to do this tattoo now.”

“Why do you need me to talk to the artist then?” Crowley had worked her share of customer service jobs and nothing left her quite as irritated as someone asking to come in off hours. She didn’t really want to make someone angry right before they drove a needle into her body.

“Because you’re the hot one.”

“Why do you only say that when you need something from me?”

“Why do you ask so many fuckin’ questions?”

And then the door opened. The assumed owner of Brimstone and Ink was not what Crowley expected of a tattoo artist. Unlike the blacks and reds of the shopfront, she was wearing a crisp white suit. Her hair wasn’t any unnatural color, pulled up into the type of bun Crowley was used to seeing on school teachers. She didn’t seem to have a single tattoo on her.

“Are you illiterate or just rude?”

“Neither,” Crowley said, while Hattie and Li decided to chime in at the same time with, “Rude.”

The tattoo artist sighed and turned her attention towards Beez. “You’ve been here enough times to know my hours.”

“Right.” Beez started, but didn’t seem to know where to finish, so Crowley jumped in.

“We would have come back later if we could, but we’ve got tests to study for. You know how university is.”

“No, actually, I don’t.” The artist did not look impressed, but Crowley pushed forward.

“If we could be artists of your caliber, certainly we wouldn’t have to know how it is either. But unfortunately we’re not, so unfortunately we do, so could we please come in and experience your incredible talents?” Nailed it, definitely not nervous rambling at all. Turning the charm up like this almost made her contemplate tacking on a third major in business as well.

The woman squinted at Crowley, before turning her attention back to Beez. “This is her first one, right?”

Beez nodded.

“You’re lucky she’s pretty. Skin like that’s going to take the ink well.” The woman stepped aside and the Fallen Angels moved into the shop. Crowley wasn’t sure if anyone else heard, or if it was just her own nerves echoing in her own ears, but she could have sworn she heard the tattoo artist say, “and it’ll be fun to watch someone so annoying squirm on my table.”

The shop matched the sign out front, dark floors and red painted walls. There were several artist stations but they were all neatly put away in the off hours. The walls of each section were lined with framed pieces, from flash tattoos to full oil paintings to rice paper calligraphy. Before the last ten minutes, Crowley had never thought about getting a tattoo, but seeing this made her want every inch of her skin covered in art.

The group was steered towards the back of the shop, where the pieces on the wall took on a distinct style. The shop owner flicked on a switch and set of Broadway-style circular bulbs lit up, spelling out ‘Michael’. Her other pieces included wings, from fairy to eagle, and other various creatures. There wasn’t a drop of color to be seen, just black and white designs, made vibrant on skins of all shades. 

The snap of latex drew Crowley’s attention away from the wall. Michael, if she could guess the artist’s name, had put on white gloves to match her suit. “What’s she getting?”

Beez pulled out their phone, showing Michael the design. Michael nodded, contemplative for a moment before her expression turned hard neutral again. “I’m getting supplies. When I come back, I want her on the table knowing exactly where she’s getting the design.”

And then the group was left alone in the front room of the shop. Hattie and Li drifted to other stations, lounging on artists chairs and talking about different designs they’d get. Crowley heard something about matching tattoos and immediately made a point to stop listening.

“So what exactly am I–” Before she could finish with yet another question, Beez flipped their phone screen to face her. The design was simple, and elegantly so. It matched the work Michael seemed to prefer - a single-color, single creature. A snake, twisted against itself.

“Some rules,” Beez said, putting their phone away. “You have to pay for half of it. You can’t chicken out midway through. And you can’t get it on the easy spots.”

“Easy spots?”

“Arms, chest, calves. Meaty areas, not that you have many.” Beez had started stalking circles around her. “You’re mostly bone, so this will probably hurt wherever you get it.”

“And this is the last task before I’m in?”

“Nope.”

“I thought you said war _or_ death.” Crowley sighed. She didn’t know why she bothered asking. “Where’d you get yours?”

Beez stopped pacing, but turned on their heels. With their back to Crowley, they picked up their messy crop-cut hair, revealing a cleanly shaved undercut. There, on the back of their skull, was a fly.

“Hattie and I joined at the same time. Luci told me about a fight she got into and I said I wanted to be a fly on the wall for it.” They shrugged, and even though it shouldn’t have made sense, it did.

“I got into a fight with my french professor,” Hattie chimed in from across the room. She tugged up her shirt, showing a frog sitting on her ribs. Another artist must have added to it, as blue-green lily pads were decorated around the creature, creating strangely beautiful swamp.

Li kicked off her shoe and showed a chameleon on her foot, it’s curled tail wrapping around her ankle. “This hurt worse than getting hit by a car.”

“You got hit by a car?” But, like usual, Crowley’s question was ignored. She turned her attention back to Beez, who was fixing their hair in a mirror, as though the messy edges had a specific way they were supposed to frizz up. “What’s Luci’s?”

“She shaved her head freshman year, when she started a different band with her ex. Got a goat in a pentagram tattooed right here.” Beez tapped the top of her skull. “I’ve never seen it, since she grew her hair out before I met her, but it sounds metal as hell.”

Crowley nodded, doing her best to ignore the strange dread of knowing Luci had looked so completely different and she’d never even known. She’d sent Luci hundreds of snapchats that first year they were apart, but now it made a little more sense why she never got anything more than a ‘haha cool’ in return.

She turned to the mirror Beez had just been using, looking over her body. They were right, she was mostly bones; wherever she picked would hurt. But she didn’t want to hide this tattoo like everyone else did. Beez was going into politics, it made sense that they needed to be careful, but Crowley didn’t. She wanted everyone to know she was a Fallen Angel. She was a snake, ready to strike. She was clever.

“Here,” she pointed to her temple, right next to her ear. Her hair was long enough to be tied back, so the little snake would always be on display. “Would that look cool?”

“Good choice,” Michael had returned, stepping into the frame of the mirror behind Crowely. She wasn’t much taller than Crowley, but the heel of her boots was just enough to let her feel intimidating. 

“Thanks.”

“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” Michael put a hand on her shoulder and steered her towards the table. It was black, like most of the furniture in the shop, but plush. “Thank me after it’s done hurting.”

Crowley laid on her back, turning her head to the side. Beez slipped into the corner of her vision, eagerly watching. At the first touch against her face, Crowley flinched and the room echoed with quiet laughter.

“You do that again and I’ll turn this snake into a lizard.” Michael had only touched Crowley with her gloved forefinger, tracing the area where the tattoo would live. “This is going to hit right around your jaw bone, so I’d recommend a liquid diet for the next week.”

“Hattie’ll bring you some smoothie supplies tomorrow,” Beez said.

“What, why?” Hattie whined.

“Because when Luci isn’t here, I’m the boss.”

There was some grumbling but Crowley couldn’t hear it over the sound of an alcohol soaked cotton ball swiping near her ear. The tip of a pen touched her skin, but she refused to flinch a second time.

“Better.” Michael made the sliver of praise still sound like an insult. Her pen was steady as she sketched out the design. There were a few swipes again with the cotton ball, erasing pieces and smoothing edges, before she tilted Crowley’s head further towards Beez. “Good?”

“Perfect.”

“Shouldn’t you be asking me what I think of it?” Crowley asked, though she made no real move to get up and see it for herself.

“Enough questions, Crowley. No more talking.” It was unnerving, having Beez stare at her so intently. They hardly gave Crowley much more than a glance, even as they talked at length through rehearsal notes. But then again, they weren’t really looking at Crowley; they just wanted to watch the needle pierce skin.

There was a final pass of alcohol, dabbing delicately not to smear the temporary ink from the sketch pen, then silence. Crowley clenched her fist, wanting to be ready, only to immediately unclench it and tighten it again. She wasn’t made to be still.

The buzz of the tattoo gun was deafening, so close to her ear. It nearly numbed her for the bite of the needle. Nearly. The pain might have been bearable anywhere else but Michael had been right. This was directly on her jaw. The vibrations and sharp shock of pain seemed to radiate down her bones, slicing itself through her mouth and down her throat.

But she didn’t move.

All things considered, the tattoo was small. By the time Crowley started getting used to the lancing buzz against her skin, finding a strange sense of zen in the middle of it all, the noise and the pain stopped. She heard Beez pass some bills over her head, handing them to Michael, then someone was forcing Crowley to sit up.

“I’ll venmo charge you,” they said, snapping one picture of Crowley’s face then walking out of the shop.

Crowley wanted to ask them to wait, ask how she was supposed to drive back to campus like this, how she was supposed to sing for rehearsal tomorrow, but the words died in her mouth as her jaw refused to open.

“Your weird little friend is right,” Michael said, dabbing at the damaged skin with a paper towel that came away red and black, stained like the rest of the shop. “No more talking, at least for a few hours. You’ll be fine tomorrow.”

She covered the tattoo and handed Crowley a business card, one side with her contact info, the other with care instructions for her new body art. “If you call for a touch up, make sure it’s during business hours.”

Crowley nodded and made her way out of the shop. The boulevard felt louder than before, even though hardly an hour had passed. She felt exhausted as she walked to her car, like she’d danced for days instead of just lying on a table for a few minutes. She drove back to campus slower than she’d ever driven in her life, and didn’t even look at her phone until she collapsed back in bed.

She paid Beez, opened a snapchat from Newt of his most recent computer science assignment going up in flames (not literally this time, but he was getting truly roasted online), and saw a single text from Azira.

The culinary angel had told Crowley outright that her finals were due sooner than most programs on campus. That she had to do well on them. That it would be a while before she could hang out again. That she wouldn’t be texting Crowley back but it wasn’t personal.

It felt personal, even though it had only been a week or so.

And this single text, a response to all the embarrassing double texts of encouragement Crowley had foolishly sent each morning, was perhaps the most personal thing Azira had ever said to her.

“Missed you. Free tomorrow?”

* * *

As Michael predicted, Crowley could talk again before the next day, but there wasn’t much she could talk about. She was silent in her classes, missing out on anything important for the psychological impact of certain chord progressions, or the physics of certain theoretical realities. Her only thought was Azira. That evening. She missed her.

The day flew by, broken up not by hour long classes which had blurred together, but only by Crowley cleaning her tattoo regularly. It was uncovered now. She wondered what Azira would think of it.

She wondered what Azira would think when she confessed her feelings. Because she had to ask, no matter how her hands shook at the thought. She’d wanted to ask for weeks, but more important than her own desires, she refused to chicken out on Newt.

When Crowley arrived at the Eastern Gate, she was surprised to find Azira waiting in the first floor lounge. “I thought you were cooking today.”

“Crowley!” Her face seemed to glow as she rose from her spot on one of the threadbare couches. Azira seemed to reach towards her for a moment, for a hug or perhaps to grasp her hands within her own, but stopped herself. “Your text messages were appreciated.”

“They were?”

“Of course. I know you and your friends are punks, or what have you, but it was really so sweet.” Even in the half burnt out fluorescent lights, Azira’s blush highlighted her cheeks like fresco-drawn roses. Crowley could only hope her own face didn’t match.

“S’ your fault anyway, feeding me all these sweets. I might not be a very good taste tester today,” and she pointed to her new tattoo, hoping her hand didn’t shake.

Azira was silent, staring for a moment before taking a step closer and staring some more. Of all the challenges becoming a Fallen Angel had put Crowley through, this one was the least damning. The most permanent, of course, but it felt right. This little snake was always a part of her, only now she could see it and so could everyone else. If this was too much for Azira, if this lost whatever shred of interest she might have in Crowley, then despite every honest attempt, she would have never truly known Crowley at all.

Still, it was terrifying to consider.

“Did it hurt?” Azira finally whispered.

“I survived.” Crowley shrugged, as close to the truth as she wanted to get. “But if I have to suffer through another to-go soup, I might die.”

Azira’s laughter was angelic, and Crowley would thank whoever she needed to for allowing her to listen to it a little while longer. “It’s beautiful! Though I can’t imagine eating nothing but soup. Oh!” And her face! When inspiration struck, it was like the sun blooming a storm into a rainbow. She felt undeserving to have been the cause of it tonight. “Crème glacée!”

Despite entire classes around French cuisine, Azira’s accent had remained terrible. Crowley loved it. “And that is…?”

“Ice cream! The staff brought me buckets of it when I had my wisdom teeth removed. I can make that for you.”

“Only if you want to, angel. I don’t need a snack in order to spend time with you.”

“I want to,” and then Azira did reach forward, did take Crowley’s hands in her own. “Crowley, I want…” The eye contact that she’d created was so intense. When Azira broke to look away, coy like a medieval maiden, Crowley remembered how to breathe and sucked in as much air as she could before blurting out.

“I like you.”

“Pardon?” And those blue eyes were back on her again. Azira took one hand back to push her long blonde hair out of her face, but Crowley’s hand chased it, cupping Azira’s cheeks.

“I.” Speaking wasn’t even this difficult the day before. At least the delicate softness of Azira’s face in her palm was warm, like liquid courage rushing into her veins. “I like you. As a person, but also more than that. I mean, you’re still a person, but that’s not what I mean. I don’t even like sweets that much, I only hang out with you because of you.”

“You don’t like sweets?” Azira hadn’t moved away from Crowley’s hand, but she did tilt her head further against it, like a confused cat.

“Angel, that’s not the point. I like you. Like, like like.” What was happening? Why was this nonsense coming out of her mouth? She’d practiced this, she’d thought about this, and now she was ruining it. She sounded so stupid and Azira would never–

“Oh, that’s convenient.”

“It is?”

“Yes, I like like you too, Crowley.”

“You do?”

Azira hummed, thoughtful as she leaned against Crowley’s hand with more intention. “You dropped out of the one literary class in your schedule. You don’t say things with words, do you.”

It wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t a lie, but Crowley felt the need to protest anyway. “I say plenty of things with words.”

“You speak with actions,” Azira continued. “Let me say this in a way that will really sink in.”

She left the gentle touch of Crowley’s hand, moving closer and closer. Crowley could feel as Azira moved to stand on the toes of her impossibly posh Mary Janes, before she paused, lips inches away from Crowley’s own. And Crowley couldn’t manage to blink, couldn’t look away even as she went cross eyed.

Azira had closed her own eyes, it seemed, barely whispering, “Can I kiss you?”

Crowley should move. She should press forward, like they did in the movies. It’d be so simple, but she was frozen. “Yes,” she managed, and as soon as the word left her, squeaked out though it may be, Azira surged forward and followed through for them both.

This was not her first kiss, but it was the only kiss she’d ever had that matter. That felt meaningful, more than some fellow drunk sloppily pressing against her face. This was so soft she wasn’t even sure if it was kissing. It was the press of Azira against her and she was so gentle, like Crowley was something worth being careful with. It was perfection and agony all at once, so Crowley had to part her lips and push further.

Azira stilled and, surely, everything was ruined. Crowley had pushed too far, gone too fast, like she always did and shattered one of the best moments of her life.

But instead, Azira matched her, pace for pace. Her teeth nipped against Crowley’s bottom lips and finally, _finally_ , Crowley stopped thinking. Her hand moved back to its rightful place against Azira’s skin, pulling her closer and steering them together. She felt Azira’s hands land along her waist and she’d never felt so close to another person in her life.

Then she stilled. She stopped. Crowley was the one who had to pull away.

“Crowley?” Azira’s hands slid up, pulling her ever so slightly closer but not bringing their lips together again.

This was so unfair. “My jaw hurts way too much, I’m so sorry. Can we do this more in, like, a week?”

There was that laugh again. Crowley could literally feel the twisted tension smooth off of her face. “Of course, darling. I know you’re not here for a snack, but I think ice cream might actually help.”

Crowley was still reeling from darling, of all things, and slipped her hand in Azira’s as they walked up the stairs to the kitchen. “Well, I am here for one snack.” She winked, but Azira didn’t seem to get it. “You, you’re the snack. It’s, uh, an expression.”

“Oh. I think I like that.” She smiled and Crowley wasn’t sure she could wait a week before kissing her again, the pain barely registering compared to how overjoyed she felt just seeing that smile.

* * *

It was hard to go to rehearsal the next day. Aside from Luci’s lack of understanding that singing at full blast was still painful, Crowley couldn’t seem to focus. Even the pull of her raw skin wasn’t enough to keep her thoughts on the music. All she could hear was Azira’s laugh. Her mouth was full of the aftertaste of french ice cream, warping around the words of Luci’s lyrics.

She was musing the differences of french and non-french ice cream when Luci stopped playing. “Oh, are we done?” Crowley checked her phone for the time, a text from Azira filling the screen. She went to open it, not thinking through the action of her thumb swiping across, when the phone was snatched from her grasp.

“Angel, huh?” Luci’s nails beat an impatient melody along the fragile glass. “She gonna be a new recruit?”

That was a thought Crowley couldn’t piece together. Azira and Fallen made no more sense together than cheese on the moon. She wanted Azira to know about her music, the same way she knew about Azira’s cooking, but to have her fall and go through these tasks? Impossible. Crowley couldn’t imagine Azira getting a tattoo. And she already knew Azira hated the smell of tobacco.

“Antonia! I am talking to you!” Luci had moved to cover Crowley’s entire field of vision.

Crowley outright flinched, but tried to uncurl her spine with an attempt at a smile. “Guess we played so loud my hearing’s shot.”

“Or you’re too busy dreaming about your girlfriend,” Hattie sneered, as though the concept of hypocrisy wasn’t something she’d ever have the braincells to comprehend.

“She’s not my…” Crowley started to say, only to consider the idea. Could she be? Was that something Azira would want? Crowley felt warm at the idea. It was the warmth of lying in the sun, of blankets and cocoa, not the sweltering boiler heat of the physics building basement.

With the sneer that slid across Luci’s face, Crowley was pretty sure the temperature of the room wouldn’t be an excuse for whatever look crossed her face. “Congrats, you finally stumbled out of your awkward phase. I’d started to worry it wasn’t a phase.” Luci had poked at Crowley’s appearance for as long as they’d known each other, a careless banter that Crowley hardly needed to think about.

“Well, Beez is always saying I’m the hot one of the band.” Crowley shrugged, but the motion was only half way through when Luci grabbed her face. Her nails dug dangerously close to Crowley’s tattoo.

“You’re distracted, little snake, if you’re forgetting for a single second that I am the hot one of this group.” She acted like Crowley had meant what she said, like it wasn’t the back-and-forth they’d always done. Did that go sour the second she started talking to someone who wasn’t Luci? “Do you think being our front woman isn’t an honor? Do you think it’s not something I can’t take away?”

“It’s an honor,” Crowle tried to say, but Luci’s grip only tightened.

“You. Are. Distracted. And I won't have it.” She released Crowley with a shove causing her to stumble into Li’s drums. “Break up with her. Or ghost her. Set her up with someone else or set her on fire. I don’t care what it takes. If I ever see you with that angel again, you will never be one of us.”

“Luci,” Crowley managed to get to her feet. “Being in this band is everything I’ve ever wanted. I’ll give whatever it takes. I already have!” She gestured to her tattoo. “The Fallen Angels is my life, I only see Azira when you don’t need me.”

“I _don’t_ need you. That’s the whole point. I’m doing you a favor, letting you into my band.” Luci still hadn’t turned around, but she hadn’t moved either. No pacing, no fidgeting with her guitar, nothing but ice in the form of a person. “You were going to be nothing at this school, Antonia. This band defines you.”

Suddenly, she turned, and Crowley nearly tripped back into the drums again. “You burned for us, you stole for us, you bled for us. Now you better choose a side in this fight, and you better choose wisely because I do not grant second chances. You choose us.”

Crowley nodded, too stunned to say anything. There was no defense against this. There was no questioning Luci.

“Glad you understand.” Luci grabbed her guitar and stalked towards the stairs. “The rest of you clean up. And Crowley?”

For a second, the softness of her voice felt like reprieve, like maybe they were okay again, like they used to be. Maybe there was some other way to finish this final task.

Crowley was tall, but Luci was taller and looking up at her still felt like staring at the sun. There was no warm to be found, only burning. “Drink some lemon water or something, your voice sounds terrible.”


	4. War and Soufflé

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A series of confrontations, leading to a clear decision on what side everyone belongs on.

After that first kiss, any communication with Crowley was few and far between. The kitchen got lonely again, but by some miracle, Azira wasn’t bothered by it. If it had happened with some other crush, she would have paced the kitchen, wondering where she went wrong. But this was Crowley. When they had parted ways that night, Crowley had chased back after her to kiss her goodbye, just one more time. Then to run back again, when she’d forgotten to say thanks for the to-go ice cream.

“I could have texted you but this is…” Crowley didn’t finish the sentence with words, just gesturing with her hands and Azira had laughed. There was another kiss and she felt like she was floating.

It was only between classes a few days later, getting a text from Crowley sharing some ice cream with Newt that she realized why she wasn’t bothered by the near-ghosting. Despite everything she had assumed, Crowley was always honest with her. She actually believed her food was good - too sweet was good in Azira’s opinion. She actually believed Azira looked good in the dresses she wore. Crowley believed in Azira, in what she wanted to do.

Crowley believed in her more than Azira even believed in herself. And while she was grateful, she wasn’t about to get comfortable. Oh no, Crowley could give her the push she needed, but Azira was going to run with it. She was going to believe in herself just as much as Crowley did.

She was still riding this high as she took her fourth soufflé out of the oven this week. It had collapsed, like all the others, but shockingly, that was okay. This one had been over mixed, but it had enough cream of tartar, unlike the one before it. She was a good chef, she would get this right eventually.

“Knock knock!” The door opened without any actually knocking as Gabriel waltzed into the kitchen. He might have shown her this space, but he didn’t actually own it. “How’s my favorite sister?”

She wasn’t going to point out that she was his only sister, not today. Not when she was still feeling this good. “Really great, actually. Though I’ve been–”

“Ooh, yeah, love that for you. Just wanted to swing by and ask you about that password. I turned read receipts on for your phone, so I know you’ve seen my texts.”

Azira put the bake pan down on the counter gently. She knew who she was and she would continue to be gentle. She knew this conversation was going to happen and she knew what she was going to say. “I responded to the one about the hockey game.” She knew what she was going to say eventually.

“And I appreciated that, but Sunshine, you need my help with your class schedule.” He’d circled the kitchen and ended up back in front of the door, effectively blocking her in.

“Gabriel.” Her voice shook, but nothing else about her did. She could say this, firmly, as firm as her feet planted on the floor. “I am not giving you the password to my academic account.”

“Okay, fine, do it the hard way. So which major are you going to change to?”

“Why would I change majors? I’m doing great with this program.” Azira stepped to the side, hoping it seemed natural and not like she was hiding her failed soufflé.

“I’m sure you’re getting good grades, but that doesn’t mean much. You know that, don’t you?” He moved closer, tilting his head like he was talking to a particularly slow puppy. “Azira, it’s not too late to change your major to something more…”

Anyone else might seem to be considering their next words, but Gabriel made it clear she was supposed to fill in the blank. It was a call-and-response. Her major was pointless, silly, unprofessional, all of the above. He wanted her to say that, but she wouldn’t.

“More what, Gabriel.” If he wanted to insult her, he could do it himself.

There was a flash of irritation in his eyes, before it dipped back down to pity. “Worthwhile?” He said it like he was apologizing, but his face was anything but apologetic.

That was fine, Azira was ready for this. “Nourishing the world isn’t worthwhile?”

“No offense, sis, but you’re attempting to be a pastry chef.” He talked about her profession like it was a scuff on his overpriced shoes. “Health is worthwhile, but I don’t think I’ve ever once seen you cook a vegetable.”

“I made spinach puffs last Christmas. The house staff didn’t even help, I did it all myself!”

Gabriel frowned, though whether he’s trying to remember last Christmas or simply express his disapproval for Azira raising her voice, she couldn’t tell. “I might have been on a juice cleanse then.”

“But you would have seen me cook a vegetable.” This wasn’t the point she needed to make but she couldn’t seem to drop it.

“Whatever. The point is, it’s not too late!” He smiled too wide, a predator with concerned prey any other day, but not today. Not anymore.

“You can’t change my mind. I want to do this.”

“But what about what Mother wants? I don’t think she’d be happy with you wasting her hard earned money on this.” He probably thought he was being clever as he gestured to the stove. He couldn’t see the soufflé from where he was standing, Azira knew that. She knew he was gesturing to her stomach.

“I’m not wasting her money.” She’d repeated that for weeks in the mirror, and she would keep repeating it. It was true, and Gabriel couldn’t change that. She wouldn’t let him. “I am not a sunk cost.”

“You don’t need to get so defensive. I just think you should consider other options. Maybe you could double in communications, be one of those TV chefs if you hit the gym a little more.”

“That’s not a compromise, Gabriel! Nobody trusts a skinny cook.” Another Crowley-ism, that suddenly felt more true than it ever had.

“Don’t shout, it’s rude.”

“You’re rude!” She shouted. It felt good, watching him blanch at her. But she was better than that. She didn’t need to shout to be heard, not anymore. She took a deep breath and continued with the speech she had planned. “I am the sole beneficiary of my own college fund. Mother set it up that way intentionally. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“I’m not telling you, Sunshine, I’m just suggesting.” He held up his hands, a fake surrendered, but he took a real step back when Azira stepped forward.

“And I’m suggesting that you go back to your apartment and I’ll see you at Christmas.” She smiled, sweet enough to pass, but too many teeth to be taken lightly.

He was moving towards the door, but Gabriel never really backed down from anything. Annoying as it was, it did make him a good accountant. “Think about the TV chef thing. Or maybe accounting for a restaurant chain.” 

“I’ll think about it.” And she would, in the two seconds after he said it, and then never think about it again.

He nodded, usual smile seeming hollow across his face. But he was satisfied with her answer, for now. Gabriel was close enough to the door to simply reach behind his back and turn the knob, disappearing into the empty building.

It didn’t quite feel like the victory she planned for when she practiced in the mirror, but it was nice all the same.

* * *

When Crowley said she’d meet Azira at the Eastern Gate, she expected the kitchen door to be the preferred method. However, she was halfway through preparing her latest soufflé when Crowley tumbled onto the tile below the open window.

“Hiya, angel.” Her cigarette was still burning between her lips, even though the filter was bent.

“Why on earth did you climb through the window?” She helped Crowley off the floor, while looking out into the night. There was a tree nearby, but only just barely. It’d be a scramble to reach the window.

“Long story,” was all Crowley offered about most things that Azira asked about since they started dating. _When’d you start smoking? Did you have a pet snake? What do you even do at all those rehearsals?_

Crowley put out her cigarette, tossing the remains out the window. She sprayed something in her mouth, letting a minty scent waft through the kitchen, before pulling Azira in for a quick kiss. It was soft, just a press of lips, but enough for Azira to sigh against.

“Something smells not burnt.” Crowley whispered as she pulled back.

“No, not this time.” When anyone else joked about her cooking, Azira felt defensive. With Crowley, it was like an inside joke. Like she knew that for every burnt pastry, Azira had two successful bakes. Crowley knew her, but Azira felt like Crowley was a mystery, even after all this time. “I’m making a soufflé,” she said instead of any questions that lingered on her tongue.

Crowley took her usual spot on the counter, and for a peaceful moment, they chattered about nothing. Despite the numerous unsaid things, they shared nearly everything else. Azira was borrowing a prophecy book from Anathema. They speculated on the nature of Anathema and Newton’s relationship, before Azira insisted it was rude to talk about their roommates in such a way. Crowley just laughed.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, laughter dying too quickly for Azira’s liking. “College relationships are always doomed.”

“My parents met at university, actually,” Azira whispered. The repetition of stirring soothed the bristling she could feel at the edge of her mind.

“And they’re still married?”

She nodded, confident Crowley was watching her. Any other friend might be looking at their phone, but not Crowley. It felt like Crowley couldn’t keep her eyes off Azira.

“Okay, the title of the relationship doesn’t matter, I guess. Are they still in love?”

Azira nodded again, but frowned into her soufflé mixture. “I think the title matters a little.”

Crowley made some sort of sound that couldn’t be ascribed to any language, living or dead. It was usually an endearing trait, but right now it just ground at Azira’s patience. “Labels,” Crowley summed up, like the single word in that vaguely disinterested tone summed up her entire opinion. “Only really need ‘em on the sides of graphs, if y’ask me.”

Since they started dating, Crowley said more about equations that made up the universe than about anything that made up herself. She’d told about Azira every constellation visible for the month, but her favorite song to sing with her band remained a mystery.

It was more frustrating than it should be. Azira tried to steady her hands as she poured the batter into the bake pan.

Were they even dating? Or did Crowley just kiss her sometimes and think it was a laugh?

“I disagree.” She closed the oven door harder than she meant to, the slam echoing in the otherwise abandoned kitchen.

“Oh,” Crowley swallowed hard, an enchanting sight in other circumstances. “So, you, uh.”

Azira waited for her to say something of weight, to actually commit to saying anything at all, but instead Crowley’s voice just died off. And even after silence dropped over the kitchen, Azira waited just an extra moment to watch Crowley squirm.

“What are we?” Azira finally asked.

“We? Uh, we. We are.” Crowley nodded, jerky and unsure despite the false confidence she threw into her smile. “We certainly are.”

“Do you want to be my girlfriend or not?”

Crowley flinched, like the word burned. She opened her mouth to say something, several times, only to close it and rethink. “That’s…”

“That is not asking too much. Our first kiss was over a fortnight ago and I think that’s more than enough time.” Her hands were on her hips now. She knew she looked silly, little apron fluffed out like the feathers of an irritated bird, but she couldn’t stop herself.

The worry seemed to melt off Crowley and the smile that took over her face was serene. At least Azira could tell that much. “You’re the only person I know who’d ever use fortnight in an actual conversation.”

It took more control than Azira wanted to admit to prevent stomping her foot. “You are avoiding my question. Are you or are you not my girlfriend?”

“Yours,” Crowley echoed, dumbstruck like she sometimes got. Again, endearing any time other except now.

“No, the tea kettle’s. Yes mine.”

Before Crowley could respond, the warbled notes of Queen interrupted, a soft rattling coming from her phone vibrating along the countertop. She looked at the screen and grimaced. “Angel, I gotta go.”

“No. No!” Azira did stamp her foot and it could register as embarrassing later. She was too mad about it now. “You are always late or early or both. I’ve barely seen you in weeks!”

“We’ve got a show–”

“And why can’t I come watch?”

Guilty washed over Crowley’s face. “I don’t really think it’s your thing.”

“I don’t even know what the thing is, how do you already know that I wouldn’t fit in.” She watched Crowley shift on the counter, halfway through the motion to stand, but Azira was blocking her in. It felt bad, taking up space like this, being so decidedly in the way when she worked so hard to be small.

“I never said you wouldn’t fit in,” Crowley started, but even as she said it, Azira could read between the lines. It was true, Crowley hadn’t said it, but she’d meant it. Azira just shook her head.

“But I wouldn’t though, would I? I mean,” she gestured to herself, not really focusing on any one thing, but her body tended to speak for itself. Frizzy hair, frumpy clothes, soft all over. “Your genre is punk, right? With the black and the smoking.”

“Yeah.” Crowley sounded reluctant, like even that shred of information was too sensitive to surrender to someone who clearly wasn’t meant to be her girlfriend.

Azira nodded. These last few weeks finally made sense to her. Even the little adventures she’d gone on with Crowley, each secreted away so it was just the two of them. Azira might be a bit slow, but she wasn’t stupid. “You’re embarrassed of me.”

Crowley looked even more lost than when they’d started this failed conversation, but the emotion was more complex this time. Mixed with something that, if Azira wasn’t so lost in her emotions herself, she could possibly interpret as anger. “What?”

“You don’t need to spare my feelings. I–” Oh damn it all, she could feel tears tracing down her face. She was just such an easy crier, but it wouldn’t do to cause guilt. It wasn’t fair to Crowley, just wanting to protect her image. Azira could understand, even if it hurt. “I don’t want to– to tarnish your cool reputation.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Despite the lack of room, Crowley squeezed into the space between Azira and the counter. She towered over Azira, but that wasn’t new. And Azira was not about to back away.

“Look, I can be understanding to a point, Crowley, but do not act like I am unintelligent.” It felt good, staring up into her eyes, not backing away as she defended herself. It would have felt better if she was staring up at anyone else, though. Fighting with Crowley was the last thing she wanted. “If you don’t want to be seen with me, then just say so.”

“You don’t understand,” Crowley tried, speaking with her arms in nearly a fail. “I can’t be seen with you.”

“Then I am sorry, Crowley, but. But…” Oh, it was hard to say, but she had to. Crowley had told her that she was worth going into battle for, and it hurt to turn that kindness back so cruelly, but Azira had to go to battle for herself. “I will not date someone who’s embarrassed of me. I am worth more than that.”

“Obviously! You’re worth the bloody stars and the moon to go with them!” Her flailing had gotten wilder, so Azira took a step back, giving Crowley just enough room to pace in front of the oven. She probably shouldn’t be complimenting Azira, that wasn’t really how these things were supposed to go, but it would be foolish not to take the kind words.

“Right. And it’s your loss for not seeing that sooner.”

“‘Seeing that sooner’?” She sneered, voice pitched in a parody of Azira’s. “I’m the one who–” But Crowley’s ranting stopped short. She turned back around so quickly, her hair a fire behind her and her eyes just as burning as she suddenly went still, staring at Azira. “Are you breaking up with me?”

Before Azira could respond, there was a sharp pop from the oven. “Oh no, the soufflé,” she whined, opening the oven door to pull out the deflating dough.

Crowley scrubbed a hand over her face. “We shouldn’t have been arguing in front of your sensitive dough.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being sensitive.”

“I know that!” She snapped, but then Crowley took a deep breath and stood beside Azira at the counter. “I wasn’t comparing you to the soufflé, angel. You’re much more of a crepe than a leavened bread.”

Azira shook her head, fond this time. “I don’t think you actually know what you’re talking about.”

“I probably don’t. But I…” She sighed. “I don’t really know what we were talking about just now. I’m not embarrassed of you.”

“Then why can’t I meet your friends?”

“I’m embarrassed of them!”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.” Crowley’s band meant so much to her, even if Azira didn’t know much about the band itself, she knew that much.

“I meant what I said about it not being your thing. I mean, they’re The Fallen Angels and it’s right there in the name. My bandmates might as well be demons. They don't dress nice like you. They’re loud, none of them ever think twice before they speak. Everywhere we go always smells like smoke. You’d hate it.”

“Crowley,” Azira’s hands seemed to act without her control, finding what would hopefully become a familiar place cupping Crowley’s face. “I don’t hate that.”

Crowley gestured in a vague encompassing direction of Azira, but it held none of the malice that Azira usually had for herself when she made the same gesture.

“I’m nothing similar to that, I know.” Azira said, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t like it. I like you.”

“Even after I popped your soufflé?”

It wasn’t a joke, but it still made Azira laugh. Crowley was just so earnest, it was too cute to endure silently. “Well, it takes two to meringue, my dear. We both popped it.”

“Not how that expression works, but alright.” Crowley pushed forward, keeping her face in Azira’s hands until their lips were inches apart. She paused there, waiting for permission, which Azira answered by closing the distance. It was short, chaste, but no less heartfelt.

“So,” Azira let her hands part from Crowley, turning to start scraping the soufflé into the trash. “Can I come see your show?”

When the silence dragged on for longer than it took to clean the bake tray, Azira let the rest of the supplies wait in the sink. Crowley hadn’t moved her feet, but her hands fidgeted at her pockets, seeming to itch for a cigarette but holding back to Azira’s sake.

When she finally noticed Azira watching her, she grimaced. “Well, there’s another thing.”

* * *

It would be impossible for Azira not to associate the connection of her name and her brother’s to those of the angels found in various holy texts. Gabriel was a messenger, and, despite his horrible communication skills, he seemed to take the responsibility of telling people what to do fairly seriously. Enough to make a career out of it in managing other people’s financial decisions, it would seem.

Azira never really considered herself the avenging sort. The angels she shared a name with were warriors, defenders of Eden and all good things within it. She could never envision herself with a sword.

As she marched across the darkened campus, she wished she had a flaming weapon to lead the charge. She felt as though she herself were on fire, the rage consuming her. Crowley jogged along behind her, only just now getting her footing as Azira dragged her along by the wrist.

“Angel, really, there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“There are plenty of things to be done, Crowley. This is practically hazing and I assure you the student handbook outright forbids it.” She could list the exact page and article number, but Azira doubted Crowley was interested in that. Besides, it wouldn’t do to have the band kicked off campus.

“Luci’s not going to care! She’s– she’s Luci!” Crowley said as though that was an explanation. “She isn’t to be questioned!”

That made Azira stop. They were on the grass of the physics building, dew soaking through her ankle socks. She turned to Crowley, who was nearly bent in half, hands on her knees now that they’d finally stopped the breakneck pace. Even through the panting, she seemed to be shaking from something else. As she straightened up, she ran a rough hand through her hair, causing the copper strands to scatter in all different directions. Azira couldn’t remember ever seeing her so nervous.

“Crowley. All you do is question things.”

“I know,” she all but wailed, turning to pace along the grass. “You hate it, everyone hates it. I don’t know how I haven’t been kicked out already.”

“Darling.” Azira cupped her hands around Crowley’s face, watching as she melted just a little at the pet name, some of that anxious energy finally slipping away. “All you do is question things. It’s one of your best qualities. And you’ve yet to question your oldest friend?”

It was a rare thing, seeing Crowley’s eyes so clearly. She must have forgotten her sunglasses back in the kitchen. Azira wondered if this was why she wore them, so the emotions that poured out of her were kept at bay. It felt infectious, the tears pooling in Crowley’s eyes seemed to seep into Azira’s soul.

“Because she’s my only friend.” Crowley blinked away the tears before they fell, still refusing to look away from Azira. “Was my only friend.”

Azira didn’t need to say anything more. She simply watched as the gears turned in Crowley’s head, nearly visible through her wide, warm eyes. Eventually, Crowley pulled away. She hardly seemed conscious of it, pacing the lawn outside the physics building, muttering to herself. It was good that Azira didn’t need to say more, because that was about all the pep talk she had to give.

“Okay!” Crowley shouted as the pacing stopped.

“Okay?”

“Gimme a minute, angel, I will be right back.” She stormed to a door on the side of the building, wrenching it open. An angry sound of guitars and drums rose up from the depths, before Crowley descended into them and slammed the door behind her. The sound was immediately banished from the peaceful collegiate lawn and Azira was left to wait.

It was certainly longer than a minute, but Azira took the opportunity to find a bench and enjoy the quiet night. The stars were faint; even though their college town was far from large, Azira had been told the night life was bustling. Maybe now, with everything cleared up, Crowley could show her what she’d been missing in the rave scene or whatever it was. The stars, though, Crowley had shown her those first. She’d called them steady, even as grades and majors changed. Even as their lives constantly changed. Azira could recognize the constellation Centaurus, in the same steady spot Crowley had shown her months ago.

The door slammed again, shaking Azira out of her wonderings. She turned, only to see Crowley sprinting towards her. Her long legs were nearly cartoonish. “Angel! Let’s go!”

“Go?” 

“Yup, now please!”

Azira managed to stand by the time Crowley was in range to grab her wrist and continue running. “Did it not go well?” She asked.

“Well is such a nuanced word,” Crowley said, another non-answer, but this time Azira could interpret it. She waited until they were safely back in the kitchen of the Eastern Gate, both panting as they leaned against the counters, before she spoke again.

“Darling, I didn’t want you to have to choose. I know how much the band means to you, even if they were hurting you.”

Crowley just shook her head. “I didn’t choose. Luci made her choice and,” she nodded now, still panting. “I’m okay with it. She was ready to take my head clean off with her guitar, though.”

“Just for asking questions?”

“The questions got me kicked out. Something about being a traitor to the cause, whatever that means.” Crowley shrugged. “But then I dropped my cigarette on Luci’s new shoes and that’s what she was going to end me for.”

“Oh Crowley.” And there really wasn’t anything more for her to say as she pulled her into a hug.

“S’ fine.” And it was, if only to feel Crowley lean in closer, carrying none of the tension she’d had in the last few weeks. She just let herself press against Azira and Azira was all but floating from it. “S’ nothing compared to you standing up to your brother. You see him at Christmases, but Luci’ll graduate in a few months and I’ll start a new band or something. You wanna learn drums?”

“Do bands need catering?”

“Sure, angel,” Crowley agreed easily. She shifted in Azira’s hold, leaning over to look at the now cold soufflé. “Well, my evening just cleared up. Wanna bake another?”

“I could certainly use a sous-chef. But first–” Reluctantly, she broke away, rummaging through some of the cabinets. The thin bottle she was looking for was pushed to the back and, miraculously enough, had two elegant glasses next to it that she didn’t remember placing there. “I was saving this for a panna cotta, though I think it’d be more enjoyable now.”

She handed the glasses to Crowley and popped the cork on the Chateauneuf du Pape. It was a steady pour, one Azira was glad she’d had practice for.

“That looks expensive.” Though Crowley’s awe seemed to go beyond the wine itself, eyes wide at the sight of Azira so easily popping the cork. As though she’d never had a fine wine, and wouldn’t that be tragic. Hopefully it wasn’t the case, but Azira intended to correct it immediately, just to be sure.

“I picked it up on a family trip. Wanted to use it for something special.” Azira put the bottle on the counter, taking one of the glasses from Crowley and raising it slightly. “With someone special.”

Slowly, Crowley matched her, glass lifted. “I never answered your question.”

“Which?” Azira was polite enough to ask, though she knew which. There’d only been one question tonight.

Crowley raised her glass a little higher. “I’d very much like to be your girlfriend, if you’re still in favor?”

“To romance then,” Azira suggested, bringing their glasses together with a delicate clink. Crowley snorted, the elegant moment shattered in just the right way.

“To our first semester. May there only be seven more.” She downed her glass and a flush rose along her cheeks nearly instantly.

Azira’s scolding about savoring the drink seemed pointless, their gentle chatter continuing long into the evening as yet another soufflé deflated sometime around three in the morning. Azira was alright with that, though. Of all the things in her planner, of all the little details she directed in line with her life, she had rarely felt more confident than she did in the single and sure belief that she’d have more than a handful of semesters to keep cooking and laughing with Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading <3


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